Artiste et conservateur
by unclassified
Summary: The easel, the canvas, the brush, the paint, the palette and the Angel. They all hid something from Fuji. Something Ryoma didn't want him to know. AU.OOC.Oneshot. Ryoma X Fuji


**Artiste et conservateur**

Hello, it has been a long while since I published anything so my writing might still be a little raw. Even so, I hope you will like it because I found myself crying over my own story.

Highly recommended to go along with this story: Love Me by Yiruma.

_Just youtube it. I swear on my life, it's a beautiful song you won't regret listening._

* * *

**The Easel **

_Meaning: To rest, to display. 10 months. _

Fuji had seen countless times, the image of Ryoma adjusting his easel, lifting the hatch, pushing apart the v shaped legs and hooking it into the metal ring. There were times he grew jealous, at the body contact Ryoma had with it, the seduction he offered. With a kick of his knees, through the hollow between the easel legs, his body leaning forward, almost in an embrace, it made Fuji irritated.

Sometimes he caught Ryoma caressing the wood, feeling the wrinkles rub against his skin, a smile playing on his face. The easel was old, used, worn, tired, burdened by the love Ryoma drowned it in. Fuji would catch himself smiling along to his affection and suddenly, he didn't feel jealous anymore.

"Ryoma. It's time." he called out into the setting sun, the orange light glaring against his eyes.

Ryoma didn't answer, but he did turn to look and smiled. The light flashed against his back and shaded his front in darkness so that Fuji couldn't see his face but only his smile, the soft one he returned in reply to his angel.

**The Canvas**

_Meaning: To create, to tarnish. 8 months. _

They were lying under the Sakura trees, pink flowers fluttering down upon them like descendents of God. Side by side, hands intertwined. Fuji closed his eyes and sucked his breath in, taking in the scent of the petite boy beside him. It was a strange mix of bath salts, oil paints and turpentine, but he didn't mind a single bit. It comforted him that Ryoma was there, by his side.

Ryoma had rolled over, facing him and reached out to place a single hand on his cheek. The action flattered him – a sign of affection. Fuji faced him and smiled, brushing aside blades of grass to pull Ryoma into his embrace. They looked up at the blue sky above, together, one sapphire eye, one golden eye, colors of the amazing horizon.

"Fuji, if you were a canvas, what would you be?"

"I would be empty." he chuckled-replied, squeezing Ryoma's body closer to him and sniffing his hair.

"Then I would be empty too." Ryoma whispered, burying his head further into Fuji's chest.

"Why?"

"So that I won't leave behind any regrets."

**The Brush **

_Meaning: To hide, to obscure. 6 months. _

The dust that whipped up a storm made him sneeze as Fuji clutched onto an old broom, rubbing his nose red. The old broom was falling into pieces, he mused as he swept up pieces of fallen fibers from the broom itself. The wind waltz into the window and settled against his hair, playing with a few strands of his fringe before settling down. He turned to look outside the window and framed the sky with his fingers, extracting the blue that Ryoma loved so well. Ryoma, he thought, wondering what the boy was painting this time.

"Fuji." a soft voice called from the door, the voice that often whispered into his ear as the two fell asleep side by side, listening to each other's soft breathing.

Fuji turned and smiled at the young boy who had his head comically peeking out of the doorway. "Yes?"

"Can I speak to you for a moment?" His face was unusually dark, his eyes bloodshot and watery. "In private."

They walked in silence, their hands dangling by the sides but ironically never touching each other. Straight on, turn the bend, up the stairs, click of the door, out into the open rooftop. Many moments and memories lingered there, the nostalgia and how much he missed them scarring Fuji. The sky was smiling upon them both and he heard Ryoma take a deep breath. He wasn't looking at him, or anywhere in particular, his gaze fixated on something, anything, nothing.

Then he spoke.

"Let's breakup, sempai."

And with that, Fuji was brushed away.

**The Paint **

_Meaning: Translucency, Opacity. 4 months. _

For Tezuka. He was brushed away for Seigaku's Tennis captain. It made Fuji want to laugh so bad, like someone cracked a bad joke and it chilled the whole world. Yet the only one who cracked, was him. Through the whole thing, he cultivated selective observation. He would only see things he wanted to see.

He would not see the soft smiles that Ryoma gave Tezuka.

He would not see the tender looks Tezuka returned.

He would not see the gentle hook of fingers as their hands brushed against each other.

He would not see the tears Tezuka wiped away from Ryoma's face.

He would not see the love that blossomed between them and strangled him.

Fuji felt disposable. But he refused to think that way and got himself a girlfriend. A sad sacrifice in order to cover up his misery, a sad and desperate attempt in order to show Ryoma he was happy too. He did all the things a boyfriend was supposed to, linking hands with the girl, picking her up after lessons, gently playing with her hair and kissing her lightly on the lips.

Go ahead and watch, Ryoma, watch my happy life with her, happier than the one I had with you.

Isn't that what paint is for? To cover up all blemishes.

**The Palette **

_Meaning: To mix and confuse. 2 months. _

"It's time." Tezuka called, glancing at the watch strapped onto his wrist. "What are you painting?"

"Something." Ryoma replied, gently tapping his brush against the palette for some paint.

"Him again?" Tezuka sighed. "Isn't this your 8th one?"

Ryoma didn't reply. Instead he strolled out to the window and gazed out into the evening light, breathing in the deep scent of fallen leaves. He felt two hands encircle his waist and a head rest on his shoulder and they stayed like that for a long while, drowning in their sadness.

"Tezuka, don't ever let him see these." Ryoma breathed, pulling himself away.

"Why not?"

"Because he wants to be an empty canvas, I don't want to color him."

**The Angel **

_Meaning: Messengers of God. The end. _

Ryoma laid on the hospital bed, listening to the raindrops as they fell from the sky, listening to them as they rolled over the glass surface of the window. He truly hated the clean smell of the hospital and wished he was back in the Art Room where he left his legacy, his memories, his love. Even the hospital sheets had become irritatingly clean now, as the raw texture rubbed against his skin.

A wave of nostalgia panged him, and suddenly, he felt tired. 'Ah, it's time', he thought. 'Now, you can remain a white canvas forever.'

A long beep of the heart monitor followed.

Fuji felt numb as he looked down on the smiling face of Ryoma. A glass panel separated them. A box made out of oak trapped him, keeping Ryoma away from him. Someone was crying, someone was sobbing but he didn't. He held it in. Afterall, Ryoma let go first.

Fuji strolled aimlessly. He did not know where he was heading, just walking, walking somewhere, anywhere, nowhere. Like a lost puppy, scouring the streets for love. Somehow, he ended up at the Art Room. The place looked different from how he last saw it. Someone had draped a large piece of cloth over Ryoma's studio as if it was too painful to look at.

Fuji walked over and tugged the cloth down. It fell onto him, the way hell had fell. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Ten reflections of himself looking back at him. Smiling, laughing, gazing, crying, flaring, peering, touching, holding, hugging, kissing. An angel.

The dates signed on the same bottom right hand corner of each canvas stood out to him strongly. First, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth. All counting from the day they came together.

One for each month.

So that he wouldn't leave behind any regrets.

**_Fine._**

* * *

Comments and constructive criticism are welcome. Thank you.


End file.
